


Ringbearer

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Flame of Anor, Immediately post quest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is possible to be your own worst enemy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ringbearer

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I asked how Gandalf thought that Frodo would be able to destroy the Ring; this is the answer I was given—I didn’t expect it. It is not the usual _Tirielfluff™_  
>  2\. I have always wondered if the Flame of Anor might have other application  
> 3\. This is a humble offering to those who have also suffered depression, particularly that which descends in the aftermath of some significant, life-altering event; who recognise too well the emptiness which may follow achievement

The empty corridor echoed to receding chords of lute and viol, threaded with the minstrel’s distant voice. His lay sang now its darkest part, where hearsay and imagination roamed free amid sparse fact. The telling of Sam’s heroism had been true as steel, though the tale of his courage fell short by much of the heart and soul of the story, and touched not at all on the fear and the despair, nor on the love which had driven the deeds. 

But then—Frodo must leave, must go, before… A word to the King, a hasty withdrawal through a servant’s door, had allowed his escape. Their escape, for Sam was with him.

The music died to nothing, now, and the pad of bare feet on stone was barely perceptible; the whispered passing of two hobbits disturbed the silence scarce at all. From each torch sconce, their small shadows lengthened, stretching ludicrously before them, then wavered back to naught, gathered in by the approaching light from the next. And at the back of Frodo’s neck the small hairs rose unbidden; a shiver crawled on thin fingers that sought to loose the close-kept cache of memory. He gripped the tighter to Sam’s hand and breathed easily only when the heavy door to their room shut fast behind them.

Yet another feast, as the guildsmen and burghers gathered the best of what the reviving city might offer, in Sam’s honour and his own; yet another expression of gratitude that he, at least, did not deserve. More and more speeches and songs, their words telling less and less of the truth. Frodo sighed and tugged the hero’s garland impatiently from his head, almost welcoming the pain as hair snarled and snagged in the twigs that held the leaves and fading flowers. He threw it into the fire, and flinched at the loud crackling, the acrid smell. There would be another wreath for the next banquet. And another for the next. Though he was no longer asked to wear a ridiculous silver circlet, there was always a grateful citizen with a kind token that could not in courtesy be refused. What did it matter, really? 

But he hated such a fuss being made of him; hated it the more, that he knew he did not deserve any of it. But he had smiled in the right places, contributed to conversation where he could, drunk little and eaten less. Now there was another night—another early waking—to get through. 

For a moment, he leaned into Sam’s touch, borrowing sturdy warmth into the chill at his centre, as Sam helped him to remove the legendary, obligatory, masking mithril. 

_Whatever would the worthy nobles and misguided citizens have to look at, if you appeared without it? They should look upon that, which is worth more than the whole of The Shire, and upon Sam, who is truly beyond price—each worth so much more than you!_

‘Well,’ he spoke at random, over the taunting in his head, ‘at least the feasts get longer because the food is better. With the food wains returning to the City, the fare improves with every day.’ 

Sam shook out the tangled links of mithril, and watched as firelight caught, flashing tiny silvered glints across Frodo’s desolate face. He sighed quietly. Both so beautiful, yet the one could still sparkle and shimmer in laughing light. The other… lightless now, and wan, turning the mithril-flicker to corpse candles; all joy, all solace gone, and only suffering silence save for empty comment. Since the Field of Cormallen, Frodo had turned inward and mute. He was fading, wilting like his discarded garland. 

Biting back the question he had for Frodo’s trivial remark about the food— _Then why won’t you eat any of it, if it’s so good?_ —Sam laid the mithril coat carefully in the clothes chest. He closed the heavy lid, and set his own garland gently on the top, where it echoed in green and yellow, the weaving vines and tender flowers skilled hands had drawn from the strong, dark oak. Frodo’s hair had enhanced his garland with just such contrast. Above his pale skin and clouded eyes, it had stirred Sam’s memories of Lorien, when leaf and shadow had stood gentle witness to first loving. There had been sorrow then, but much joy also.

Aloud, he said, ‘Aye, the cooks are falling over themselves trying to outdo each other with their fancy dishes. I’m surprised none of them gets hurt in the stampede to get the best of what arrives!’ He knew well enough that a light jest would have no effect on Frodo’s vague, disconnected air. Most of their conversation these days was just such meaningless banalities, which might well have been exchanged by chance acquaintance. It was a vain hope, that Frodo would speak to him of what really mattered, for Frodo was locked inside himself, tighter every day. But Sam would not, could not give up this hope, for Frodo was still there, could Sam but reach him.

Frodo stared listlessly into the fire, and Sam moved slowly behind him, knowing too well that sudden noise or movement might set him in a freezing panic, only to be released by Sam’s warm embrace. He slipped his arms about Frodo’s waist now, nuzzling gently into his hair. ‘I think you’re tired, and you should get into bed while I make us a nice cup of tea.’ 

Frodo turned in his arms and raised his face for a kiss. Soft at first, then deeper and more urgent as he sought to lose himself in the only way he still could. The only way he could escape the scouring invective in his head.

_Useless little rat! Hero? Coward and deserter would be nearer the mark. You failed! None of that ignorant lot has any idea what a weakling you are. Fooled them all, haven’t you? All that way, all Sam’s sacrifices, and at the end you threw them all back in his face! You failed. You didn’t save Middle-earth! Sam did—you wouldn’t have got half way there, without Sam. Gollum did—a grotesque, miserable, half-starved creature had to finish the job for you. You would have taken the Ring for yourself and Sauron would have crushed you like the worm that you are. Middle-earth would have fallen to the Dark, if you’d had your way. You don’t deserve any of the honours being heaped upon you. Banquets and songs? What did you do to deserve any of it? You failed!_

Only in their love-making could the voice be diminished—its threat yielding before Sam’s strength and goodness to a distant undertone, virulence burned away in the heat of their melding. In Sam’s caresses, he felt himself once more the Frodo of old, the Frodo who did not walk this fine edge of uncertainty, awaiting his doom with every new second. And afterwards he would sleep like the dead, half-wishing he might be, knowing that he couldn’t leave Sam, who must surely have his own nightmares to deal with. But in the morning’s dark, he would wake and hear it still, more accusing than ever.

_Do you feel no shame? You’re not fit to kiss his feet, let alone share his bed. You don’t even have the courage to deny yourself that. You should give thanks that Sam’s heart is so big that he will accept your contemptible caresses, that he can show kindness even to such worthless scum as you. You’re using him—using Sam to hide from yourself, and you owe him so much more than that, far more than you could ever give! You daren’t look too deep—you’d have to face the contempt he must feel for you and your weakness. Your treachery would have handed everyone and everything to the Dark Lord._ You _would have delivered Sam to his death…_

It was true, all of it. Over and over, the words orc-fashion, echoes of the Tower—his mind sheered away quickly; some things he could still control—but this voice was his own. He had failed and he knew it; entrusted with a task vital to the survival of all that was good, he had failed. He had betrayed them all, Sam most of all, for Sam had given so much, had given so much for him. And Sam would soon recognise that failure, when he had really recovered from his ordeal. He would surely then feel pity and disdain; must surely cast Frodo off as he deserved.

_Deserve? You don’t even deserve that. Death is what you deserve, and you’re too cowardly even to take the easy way out. You should have died in agony as you deserve. They all wish you had. One of these days, Sam will see through you—they’ll all see through you, soon enough. Then you’ll get what you_ deserve!

‘Frodo, love, what is it?’

_*Sam, don’t ever let me go*_

_Go on, beg him, plead with him_

He stilled in Sam’s arms, eyes wide and vacant.

_*I cannot*_

_You dare not, because you fear that he will see you for what you are_

Sam stroked his face gently, trying to smooth tension from his brow, wanting to soothe the anguish he saw there.

_*Don’t cast me off, love…*_

_He must, when he remembers what you are: a betrayer_

_*I am*_

_worthless and faithless …_

_*Yes*_

‘Tell me what it is—what’s taking you away from me. I love you, Frodo, but you won’t let me in no more.’

_When he remembers what you did, he will punish you then, along with the rest_

_*No! Sam is not like that. Sam is too good to condemn me harshly*_

‘I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong!’

_What will he do, then?_

_*He will weep for my weakness*_

‘Frodo?’ Sam watched the hurt in Frodo’s eyes crystallise slowly into tears that slid unheeded down his cheeks, as he stared beyond what Sam could see.

_So you cause him more sorrow_

_*Yes*_

_He is too good for you_

_*Yes*_

‘Frodo, please, talk to me!’

_You are unworthy of him_

_*I know it*_

_You must leave him_

_*Yes… But not yet. Please, not yet!*_

… and Frodo returned to Sam and stopped his mouth with another kiss; his caresses became too insistent for Sam to withstand had he wanted to. At least in this, Frodo was still with him. 

It was desperate passion they shared these days, for Frodo was both wild and wanton, once night’s silence closed about them. Their lovemaking was fevered and exhausting then, and it left neither of them with the comfort that had been theirs. Sam needed to know once more, the sweetness they had found in Lorien. Time there had passed in a dream of loving, beguiled by a moon which drifted its phases to elven measure and not the world’s. Their pleasure had been lingering, drawn out in gentle touches, long slow kisses and breathless, ardent giving. Such sweetness was lost to them now, dissolved in Frodo’s desperation. 

Every night was like this. Sam had his Frodo now, just as he had dreamed of, for so long; but he had not dreamed such wordless, empty loving. Frodo thrashed and moaned within the circle of his arms, fierce in his caresses, tirelessly driving them both to the brink, over and again, withdrawing only to assault Sam’s senses once more, until Sam was as frantic as he. And when finally Frodo could hold them back no longer, their release was as much relief from effort as from desire: the oblivion of exhausted sleep was the true goal. Sam’s hope and comfort, the last he knew before drowning deep, was the secret, vehement whisper: ‘I love you, Sam!’

Sam knew that Frodo was no longer seeking a haven with him, but an escape, and that whatever pursued him was proof even against their love, for Frodo was running from Sam, too. He could not fight it, could not protect Frodo from whatever he saw—wherever he went—when his eyes gazed beyond the confines of Sam’s sight. There was not even a Ring, to stay his hands from grasping. There was nothing Sam could do but be there for him. And this time, it was not enough. This time, Frodo had gone where Sam could not follow. 

What Sam held to him now, was but the shell of the love they had shared, for every day Frodo was more passionate and more distant. And Sam knew he could not stand it much longer. It was tearing him apart inside, worse even than watching Frodo battle with the Ring; at least with that there had been an end in sight, whichever way it had gone. He needed help. 

Frodo needed help.

* * * *

‘I’ll not take no for an answer, Frodo! You’re spending far too much time cooped up in here, slaving away over those notes. Yes, I do know Bilbo will expect a full account when next we see him, but I also know he’ll be giving us all a good telling off if he sees we’ve let you work yourself into the ground to do it. So just you get your cloak, and come down to the stables with me. Pippin is on duty right now—duty, he calls it. I call it gossiping with the guard—but he will be there as soon as he is free.’ Merry had swept into their room like a fresh breeze, shaking apart the waiting stillness that Frodo gathered to himself.

‘The stables? What would you be wanting in the stables, Merry?’ Sam asked, to fill the gap left by Frodo’s listless stare at this cheerful invitation.

‘Well, you know that when I was made Knight of the Mark, King Eomer vowed that I should have a steed worthy of…’ Merry blushed to say it, ‘of a hero? The Lady Eowyn told me this morning that it has arrived from Rohan, and that she will meet me there an hour after breakfast. Meet us there, for I told her that you would be coming too, Frodo.’ 

‘Really, Merry, I—’

‘You would not wish to be discourteous to the Lady, would you?’ Sam hid a smile as he listened. Merry had always known how to manage his cousin in order to get his own way. 

‘You have to come with me, Frodo, or I shall be forsworn. And there is nothing here that needs your attention so badly that you can’t spare an hour or so of your time, now is there?’ Merry met Sam’s eyes, and Sam knew that he also was worried about Frodo. Though he might not know of Frodo’s desperation in the long nights, he saw well that Frodo had withdrawn too far into himself to share with his cousins as they were used to do, and that he needed to be diverted from this passive quiet.

‘What about you, Sam? Will you come too?’ Merry was taking it that Frodo would indeed accompany him, and inviting Sam separately simply underlined the silent acquiescence.

‘Well, I thank you, but I could do with going down to the market. There’s something I need to collect, it’s a bit special and, well—I’ll just get on with that, and maybe see the pony another time, if you don’t mind.’

A spark of hurt in Frodo’s eyes, that Sam would leave him, faded quickly to that endless, hooded calm. All of Sam’s resolution was needed, not to answer Frodo‘s brief, silent plea; torn though he was, he knew that Frodo needed more help and better, than he could give. 

He had considered asking Merry for advice, but under Merry’s cheerful exterior there was always a shadow now, that spoke of demons of his own—or of Pippin’s, perhaps—that he must deal with. Sam had been shocked at how much Merry’s face had changed, when they met again after all was done. The lines around his eyes had deepened from constant pain; the ready laugh, and devil-may-care stance of the Shire days were tempered by trial and loss. To ask him to take on Frodo’s burden too, would be unfair; besides, what could another hobbit do that Sam could not? 

As soon as the cousins had left, Sam put on his cloak, and set off rapidly He had not wanted to explain his errand, because it was intended to bring a surprise, for Frodo first, and then for his cousins. The courtyard garden, where Frodo would sometimes consent to sit, was tended by an old man with whom Sam swapped garden ways and means. The gardener might have been a Man, but he knew his plants. He also knew what pipeweed was, and more importantly, he knew where Sam could get some to replenish their dwindling supply. He had a farming friend from outside the City, who came to the market here, and who would bring some and gladly, for the Ringbearer. The task would serve to cover Sam’s true purpose for the morning. He would have time to collect the promised weed, and then to seek out the help they both needed so badly.

He had thought long and hard about whom else he might ask, in the restless early morning hours. Through that long void of sleep, he lay listening to Frodo’s quick, panicked breathing, knowing that he was distressed and yet unable to offer comfort, as Frodo hunched away from him, eyes resolutely closed in pretence, avoiding talk at all costs. Though Sam’s warmth, careful at his back, would ease the panic, and his hand, cast lovingly over Frodo’s, would feel a little of the tension fade, this was as much as Sam could do, for Frodo would, or could, accept no more. He would give and give with his body, but his mind remained closed to Sam’s, leaving Sam bereft and lonely. And Sam did not know which was worse, Frodo’s fierce, silent passion or his complete withdrawal, for each cut him to the quick. He would have been desperate indeed, were it not for Frodo’s urgent, heartfelt coda to their loving; the whispered _I love you Sam!_ gave him hope that Frodo would yet come back to him.

Of all the Big Folk here in the White City, Gandalf seemed the one who would best know what to do for Frodo. He had been one of the Companions, and Sam felt easier in his company than he had back at Bag End, so the asking would not be so difficult. Gandalf was a friend of Mr Bilbo, and Sam knew beyond doubt that Mr Bilbo would have turned to him for help, had he known of Frodo’s need; and Frodo himself loved and trusted Gandalf, Sam thought, so he might not so much mind Sam asking him, if he must ask at all. Then, of course, there was that fact that Gandalf was a wizard, and one of the Wise, seemingly; that must be of aid to Frodo, though Sam wasn't quite sure how.

~

‘Mr Gandalf, sir?’

Gandalf paused as he reached to accept another parchment—a tally of returning refugees, and quite why he should need it he was not sure—from the secretary at his elbow. He could not see the owner of the voice, but recognised it immediately.

‘Samwise? Come in, come in. That will be all thank you, Tarnil.’ 

Tarnil stared openly to see a _Perian_ , here in one of the smaller rooms which opened off the main Council Chamber. He let the list slip from his fingers onto the desk, its surface already spread with papers, scrolls, maps, and open ledgers, and turned reluctantly to leave. Recollecting his manners, he bowed deeply. To be so close to one of the little people—one who wore no uniform, which meant he was one of the Ringbearers, the heroes of Mordor—was a rare opportunity to show his own heartfelt respect. 

Sam returned the bow, pointedly watching as the Man made his way past him and out of the door; then took a small firkin out from under his cloak. He set it carefully upon a vacant chair, and turned to close the heavy door behind him. The last thing he wanted was this Tarnil, hovering outside the door, eager to hear every word. It had been bad enough having such an audience of the clerks and other important-looking people as thronged the larger room, all registering considerable interest when he had asked to be taken to Gandalf. Their size and numbers were somewhat overwhelming, but Sam was in no mind to be intimidated; he had to see Gandalf, and spoke his request firmly.

Gandalf laid aside the current problem; the re-making of an entire realm was a complex business, though many hands and minds were bringing matters gradually back into order. But diplomacy could wait, now; he might be tempted to a small smile, to see Sam so resolute on privacy for whatever he had come to say, but he knew that only concern for Frodo would compel him to seek help here.

‘What can I do for you, Sam? I haven’t seen enough of you two lately. How is Frodo?’ 

‘Mr Gandalf, it’s Frodo I need to talk to you about. I’m that worried about him, sir!’ The words tumbled over each other, in Sam’s relief to be telling someone at last. ‘He’s not eating, he’s not sleeping right. He’s never going to get well if he goes on this road. He’s wasting away, sir, with every day that the rest of us get better. And he won’t tell me what’s wrong, he won’t talk to me. Half the time, he doesn’t even seem to hear what I say to him.’ Such apathy cut deep, when they might be all things to each other, now.

‘Mr Gandalf, can’t you do anything to help him?’

Gandalf frowned, trying to remember that last time that he had spoken to Frodo, other than in passing at official functions. He had seen that Frodo never looked wholly comfortable on such occasions, but had ascribed his unease to innate modesty in the face of the continuing adulation—even at Cormallen, he had been uncomfortable at that first out-pouring of gratitude and respect. But Gandalf had not thought that his abstraction would last beyond such ceremonial affairs; he had hoped that rest and quiet, and time at ease with Sam, were all the healing that Frodo needed now. He had been mistaken, obviously.

‘Has he said anything at all on the matter, Sam?’

‘Nothing. If it’s not idle chitchat or basic courtesies, he won’t say anything, not any more. Hours on end, he says nothing.’ This loss was yet another sorrow, for Sam had ever been fascinated by Frodo’s voice. Whether chanting sonorous elvish verses, or re-telling the old tales with wit and verve; occasionally waspish, sometimes teasing, or whispering love under the stars and leaves of Lorien, that infinitely variable voice had enthralled Sam’s heart and mind, long before his body had known, or dared, to respond..

‘Not even,’ Gandalf paused, knowing that Sam might still be embarrassed to speak of the bond they shared. ‘Not even late at night? Before sleeping?’

‘No.’ Sam had wondered how much he would be able to tell Gandalf, but now that he came to it, it was easy. It was for Frodo. ‘Not even after we’ve made love.’

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. This open declaration told him how desperately worried Sam must be, to speak for Frodo with no hesitation and full truth. 

‘He sleeps then. As though that was the only reason he wanted me, to tire himself too much not to sleep.’ Sam paused, clearing his throat past the hurt of this, and then plunged on, to the heart of the matter. ‘It’s like he’s listening all the time, Mr Gandalf, the way he listened to the Ring—like even though it’s gone, that thing’s still feeding off him! It ate into his soul, and the emptiness inside him is still growing. I can feel it. It’s still taking him—taking him away from me.’ His voice broke, but he faced the wizard unashamed of his tears.

‘Not the Ring, Sam, that has gone, and its voice with it. Something is festering within Frodo, that is clear—to you at least—but it cannot be the Ring.’ Gandalf sighed. ‘There has been much to do in the ordering of the City, but the well-being of the Ringbearer is of greater importance. I should have been more vigilant. Where is Frodo now?’

‘Gone down to the stables with Merry.’ Sam couldn’t help but feel slightly better, as he dried his eyes and put away his handkerchief. At least he had shared the worry that was gnawing away inside him, and perhaps Mr Gandalf could get Frodo to tell him what the problem was. Surely a wizard could find a way, and then they could resolve the matter between them. 

‘After lunch, I shall come to your room. For a pipe—’ Gandalf cocked his head, one eyebrow raised, towards the firkin, clearly marked _Westmansweed_ ‘—a pipe and a chat. Do not tell Frodo that I am coming.’

* * * 

As Sam cleared dishes onto a tray (nigh on as much food there as when he had brought them, and most of what was gone, he had eaten himself), he listened to Frodo’s tale of the morning’s visit. For a wonder, Frodo was talking to him, and there was even some life to his voice, as he told of Pippin’s flurried arrival, almost knocking over the Lady Eowyn, managing to spin sideways instead, and ending in a grinning, apologetic heap on the clean yellow straw. Sam blessed his impulsiveness, and Merry for his thoughtful concern, even as he heard Gandalf’s knock.

As Sam opened the door to him, Gandalf gave him a questioning look. Sam shook his head, then said, as brightly as he might, ‘We’ve a visitor, Frodo!’

When Frodo recognised their guest, he flinched. Gandalf had not visited their room since they had arrived in Minas Tirith. His business here must be serious, which could only mean… Mustering a smile he could not feel, Frodo rose to greet the wizard. 

‘Gandalf! I haven’t seen you to speak to for a while. Come in and sit down. Sam has a new supply of pipeweed—they call it Westmansweed here, did you know? He won’t tell me where he got it. Not Shire stuff, of course, but it smells quite good! There’s the jar, help yourself. What have you been doing these past days? I expect that Aragorn needs your advice and that’s why we haven’t seen much of you. There must be so many things to see to, let alone these state banquets with all the allies arriving, and the citizens returning. You make me feel quite lazy, drifting around all day. I really should be working on the records, for Bilbo, but this morning I went with Merry to—’

‘Frodo. Stop babbling, sit down and fill your own pipe.’ Gandalf settled himself into the large chair by the hearth and helped himself to the pipeweed. He had watched with concern, as Frodo threw out his hasty, defensive wall of many words, and he knew that Sam was right. This was not the Frodo of Shire days, accepting his burden, calm and resolute in the face of the newly-revealed Ring; nor yet the steadfast Frodo who resisted the pull of the Ring for so very long. Such wild and watchful eyes told their own story.

Although Gandalf had spoken gently enough, Frodo sensed a lurking threat beneath the smile. He sat as he was bidden, as Sam passed his pipe, already filled. He stared down at it in his hands, without seeing it at all, unease rising fast within him as the voice taunted gleefully. 

_You can’t distract him with words, fool, not a wizard—your senseless drivel won’t protect you now! He knows, worm! He’s come to denounce you. Now you’ll get what you really deserve. Do you know how traitors are punished? In some places they are whipped bloody before being thrown to the crows. Cringing, coward? Some cities tie them behind a horse which is set to galloping. Scared, are we? Yet others hang, draw down before death and split open the body, tearing out and burning the entrails, while the criminal looks on. Frightened enough yet? In Gondor—_

‘Frodo?’ Sam was offering a spill with which to light the pipe slack in Frodo’s hand. 

Frodo gasped out the tight breath he had drawn. Sam must not hear this. He should not be here when— ‘Sam! Why don’t you take the dishes down to the kitchen while Gandalf… talks to me?’

_Talks to you? He’ll do a sight more than_ talk _to you! There are probably guards outside the door right now, waiting to drag you to the darkest dungeon, back to the whips, the chains, the noise. And this time…_ this _time… you will break!_

‘Nooo!’

Frodo’s strangled cry escaped before he could master it, control slipping suddenly from his grasp. The mask of calm, maintained at such a cost, was riven apart, now, splintering into jagged shards that sliced open the curbed places of his mind, scattering unshrouded images sharp behind his eyes.

Flame seared stark from memory: glow and dark of smoky torches, shadows vast and black, wavering their menace from every side. Stench and filth and noisome slime on cold hard stone beneath, echo flinging back the voices in cacophony—thick and grating, _taunting_ voices.

Urgent, clamorous question with vicious flare of blade, in foul and broken, blackened claws. Piercing stab of question, gloating threats, and vile and shameful promises.

Whips and pain and liquor burning in the throat—

Stripped, then, of all that he possessed, naked and defenceless against squeezing, shaking, scraping claws; shamed and shivering before prodding, whirling, pushing claws; spinning, stumbling, sick and dizzy under cruelly jibing eyes and obscene lustful threats—

Whips and claws and sobbing breath and greedy eyes and putrid slobbering mouth—

‘NOOO!’

Keening a thin, high note, Frodo struggled desperately from the chair, falling against Sam and taking them both to the floor. Sam twisted fast, to catch him in the circle of his arms, but Frodo flailed blindly, fists hitting out with no regard to what or where or who, so that Sam must take and hold, lest he be hurt. 

‘Sssh, love. What is it? Tell me, tell your Sam!’ He gathered Frodo to himself, seeking with the warmth of his embrace and the love in his voice, to quiet Frodo’s pain. The piercing cry was cut off short as Frodo curled in upon himself, hands clasped about his body for protection. But the seal was broken on the torment bound so fast within. Though Sam had hoped only for such careful words and sound guidance as the Wise might give, this cruel wrenching open perhaps might vent the poison and release Frodo from its hold.

In the sudden silence, the lighted spill sputtered on the rug where it had fallen unheeded, and Gandalf moved to crush it swiftly underfoot. Sam paid no heed to the threat of fire in the City, not when his Frodo needed him.

Frodo wound himself tighter, choking out words in dry and breathless sobs against Sam’s chest. ‘No, Sam, not that, not again! Please?’

_Begging now, are you? You should be crawling on your knees for forgiveness, not scrounging for favours you don’t deserve._

His own tears falling freely, Sam looked at Gandalf, hoping that he might be able to explain, but the wizard shook his head. ‘It’s finished and done with, love! You’re safe. We’re all safe, now, and it was your doing.’ He hugged Frodo harder to himself, laying kisses into his hair as he shivered in Sam’s embrace; and Sam rocked him gently, wanting only to bring comfort.

‘No! You don’t know. You don’t understand. When you know—’ Frodo tried to pull away, but Sam was having none of it, clasped him all the closer, ‘—you won’t want to touch me!’ 

_Touch you? Why should a proud, brave hobbit defile himself, soiling his hands on filth like you? You should be surprised he even comes near you!_

‘I’m sorry, Sam, truly I am.’ The words were high, tight in his throat.

Sam’s voice was thick with pain and tears. ‘Sorry for what, Frodo love? You haven’t done anything.’ 

_See? He knows! He knows you did nothing when you’ve been strutting around like a bantam cock, pretending to be so great._

‘S–sorry that I didn’t do anything. I know I didn’t. I know that I… failed.’ He forced himself to get the word out. ‘I failed you, Sam, and I am so sorry!’ And he curled into a tight ball within Sam’s arms, tensed and waiting for the hand of fate to take him. 

_Whinging scum! You want pity now?_

‘Failed me? How could you have failed me? You never have, you never would!’ 

‘Frodo, what do you mean? How have you failed?’ Looking down at them, as they lay together, sorrowful, before the hearth, Gandalf could only feel pity and regret, that even with the ordeal of Mordor ended, peace had not yet truly come to them. 

_Go on! At least have the courage of your nasty little convictions. Tell him, tell Gandalf. Then you’ll get what’s coming to you. Go on, spit it out!_

‘The Ring. I—took the Ring. I betrayed you all.’ A whisper, threaded with agony, from the rigid form that Sam clutched to himself.

Gandalf closed his eyes against the pain of it. Here was the answer. Frodo believed that he had failed, because he had claimed the Ring. So much courage, so much suffering, and he thought that he had failed. 

So much more pain, _because_ he thought he had failed. 

Kneeling beside Frodo, he laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. Frodo clenched himself tighter, then slumped down as tension snapped to slack despair, and perhaps the waiting had been worse than its end, whatever might ensue. And Sam wept anew, that Frodo should flinch beneath the hand of one who had been guide and mentor, counsellor and friend.

_You’re for it now! Now you’ll get what’s coming to you, what you really deserve!_

‘Frodo, listen to me! You could not have done it. Not, you could not have done it alone—you know that, that you and Sam were indivisible in this. You have to accept that there was no way in which you could have thrown the Ring into the fire.’

  
**A sudden spark flashed living fire through the leaden shroud of Frodo’s thought**

_You should have done. It was your task, appointed to you. You should have done._

‘Remember, Frodo—you could not will to cast it away, even safe at Bag End, on the day its nature was revealed. Bilbo could hardly part with it with all my help, before the Nine appeared and the Ring awakened. How could you think, my dear hobbit, to carry it through long miles and many days, its voice calling ceaselessly the while, and yet resist it at the end, in the very place where it was forged?’

  
**Kindling to purest flame, it quickened at Gandalf’s every word to a flaring radiance of sound,  
consuming shadows all to shine the more **

_You should have done. It was your task, appointed to you._

‘You did fulfil your vow: ‘I will take the Ring,’ you said. Elrond named you Ringbearer: ‘The Ringbearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy, nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need.’ You took it, and you carried it faithfully. To destroy the Ring was not the charge to which you swore--Ringbearer, not Ring-destroyer.’

**Deeper now and incandescent, the resonance sang its fire through Frodo’s mind—**

_… appointed to you…_

‘If you seek failure, Frodo, then look to me.’ He would not, face burrowed deep in Sam’s embrace; yet he listened, Gandalf knew. 

‘I was a failure, Frodo. I failed you so many times.’ Gandalf’s voice shaded with regret. Again he reached a touch to Frodo’s shoulder, in mute apology, and this time, to Sam’s relief, Frodo could accept the contact without a tremor. ‘I failed to return to the Shire, to meet you in Bree, to guide you through Moria, even to get myself through Moria. I had thought to be there at the end, to help you—even to force you to give up the Ring, had it come to that, though it would have broken your mind, and I knew it. Frodo, you could not have done it alone.’

**—searing the void, ablaze with echoed cadences—**

_… you..._

‘The Ring was destroyed, and Sauron was cast down. It matters not that it was Gollum who took the Ring into the fire. The will and purpose of the Quest were fulfilled, because you and Sam had the courage and strength to go on past reason, past hope. You did not succumb when you claimed the Ring, Frodo, as greater men succumbed to lesser rings. It had defeated you at last, in the place of its greatest power, that was all. No other being in Middle-earth could have borne it so long—long enough to bring it to the fire.’

  
**—until the glory of light in sound claimed crushing victory over the formless dark.**

‘No-one but Sam could have got me to Mount Doom.’ Frodo’s voice was muffled in Sam’s shirt, but level now, and he rested easily within Sam’s arms, accepting of the unspoken support as Sam held and rocked and loved.

‘Precisely. Sam passed beyond all test of bodily endurance, and you to the very limit of mental resolve, and each of you could have done it for and with no-one else. It was the love that binds you, that brought the Ring to its end. You have such separate strengths, but together—together you were strong enough to save the whole of Middle-earth.’ Gandalf’s eyes closed briefly now, in thankfulness that two such small and indomitable beings had merged, in grace, to redeem the world from evil. 

‘I told you that Gollum had still some part to play. That was it, Frodo—the ultimate irony—that he should bring the Ring to light again, and in his desire for it, be the one to take it into the fire. ‘The pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many’, I said. You also pitied Gollum, and your pity did indeed rule the fate of all. And like Bilbo, it spared you the worst of the Ring’s effects, for your mind was not broken at the end.’

  
**Silence now; but voice and cleansing flame pulsed on in Frodo’s mind, reverberating, diminishing,  
fading to shimmered whispers that settled and were lost. **

**And in their wake, healing remained.**

Frodo raised his head tentatively. He could hear Sam, still breathing heavily in the aftermath of tears. The fire crackled cheerfully, and the kettle was beginning to sing on its hook above the flames. From beyond their room came the background sounds of the great City, a cheerful mutter of voices, laughter, swift footsteps; a far-off jingle of harness over clear hoof-beats, and the tap-tapping of many hammers as repairs went on apace.

That was all. It had gone.

Frodo was drained, exhausted and free. He breathed deeply, in the first moments of peace that he had known for weeks.

The vast room, in which he had felt so intimidated and so small, took on sudden clarity. Its sweeping proportions and delicately carved stone arches seemed now elegant and gracious. The massive featherbed, almost room-sized to hobbits, was suddenly welcoming, almost absurd, with its staircase stool standing humbly by the warm gold draperies. Even the dark oak coffer, that had been the brooding symbol of a Man’s coffin, stood a comfortable and homely reminder of Bilbo’s old mathom chest. Sam’s garland lay there still, no longer the ridiculous token of undeserved favour, but a friendly thing, bringing memories of the foliage crowns woven for Hobbiton’s lord and lady at Forelithe Festival. He sighed for ease, now. 

Sam looked down. Frodo’s face, though pinched wan from fatigue, was clear and open once more. His eyes looked at Sam, not through him. Sam bent, and Gandalf or no, he kissed away the marks of his own tears from Frodo’s cheeks, and then his mouth—and there was no more running, just giving and giving… until Gandalf cleared his throat. 

Guiltily, Sam jumped and pulled back, but Frodo smiled—his first real smile since Sam couldn’t remember when—and it melted Sam more surely than the kiss. 

‘If you two have quite finished?’ Gandalf said gruffly, for their love was plain to see, and quite beautiful. He felt deep joy for them that after sorrow there could be such comfort.

‘Sorry, Gandalf!’ Frodo said, as they helped each other to their feet, though clearly he was not in the least sorry; not for this, never for this. He hugged Sam tightly to himself, then Sam turned to the hearth, where the kettle was steaming urgently.

‘Nothing like a good cup of tea after an upset, my Gaffer always says.’ Sam had to clear his throat to speak, but the elation in his voice shone through. ‘Nice bit of that fruit cake left too, if you could fancy some.’ 

‘Do you know, Sam, I think I could!’ Moist and juicy fruit cake accompanied by a cup of Sam’s most soothing tea, suddenly seemed a mouth-watering treat to Frodo. It was long since eating or drinking had been pleasure.

‘Frodo, you should not have kept this to yourself.’ Gandalf scolded gently. ‘You should have told Sam what was disturbing you so, if you could not bring yourself to tell anyone else. He has been dreadfully worried about you, and keeping this to yourself has done you no good, either.’ He had resumed his chair, and lit a second pipe.

Frodo took cup and plate from Sam, stroking his hand in quick apology. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Sam. That was -’ he shook his head. How to explain to Sam, what he couldn’t really understand himself? With his mind clear of the searing harangue, the facts were easier to see. The inconsistency of what he had heard—had said—might be plain now, but it had not seemed illogical when it had been all he could hear, all he could think.

‘There was a voice—no, it was my voice, distorted, but not my own words—forcing me over and again to know how badly I failed you, what I so nearly did—betrayed you all to Sauron. It spoke the language of—of the Tower.’ 

He had not spoken of Cirith Ungol, even to Sam—especially not to Sam who would have stormed it and fallen to his foolish, desperate, courageous love. The tower, where the easy confidence he once had was stripped away as his clothes had been taken from him. Truly naked in the dark, laid bare before Sauron’s orcs as his mind before the Ring; twice raped though never breached. If he could not yet address it, the time would come, and soon, when he and Sam must do so—together.

'Everything that has happened here, every thought, became condemnation writ large—I couldn’t think beyond it. And it is true that I did not destroy the Ring.’ 

‘You are a very fine person, Mr Baggins, and I am very fond of you,’ Gandalf knew that both would have heard from Bilbo the words he had spoken, so long ago now, ‘but even for you there are limits! Bloody stubborn Bagginses!’ he growled playfully, with a most unwizardly wink.

Frodo grinned, and from his position on the rug by Frodo’s feet, Sam looked up and caught his eyes, marvelling at the light renewed in them. Both hobbits laughed for the jest, and more for the returned intimacy of sharing such things. 

Gandalf smiled fondly at them, and then grew serious. ‘We are so very proud of you, Frodo, and of Sam. You earned that pride through hardship and sacrifice. And I am the more proud, that you kept so well, the trust I placed in you, the day that Sam nearly ended up as a spotted toad!’

Frodo spluttered crumbs of rich fruitcake, and almost spilled his tea, remembering the look on Sam’s face that night. ‘You chose well for me, Gandalf. Sam is—’ But he couldn’t think of a way to describe Sam’s courage and steadfastness and true heroism, that wouldn’t cause Sam considerable embarrassment.

‘You and Sam combine to make one whole and perfect soul, far more when together than apart,’ Gandalf said quietly, ‘and although there may be other trials ahead, you will achieve union in the end. This is but a respite. I suggest you make the most of this time together. To which end, I shall leave you.’ He smiled broadly and rose, tapping out the embers of his pipe into the hearth.

‘Thank you, Gandalf,’ Frodo said softly. 

Small words to encompass so much, but Gandalf understood. With another smile for Sam, and a pat to Frodo’s shoulder, he left. 

‘Well!’ said Sam, as he closed the door behind the wizard and, with his parting words in mind, secured the wooden sneck in place. ‘I wonder what he meant by that? More trials? As if you hadn’t seen enough already!’

Setting aside his cup and empty plate, Frodo reached to bring Sam to him. ‘Sam, I have been using you for escape—you were the only place I could hide, even though I couldn’t tell you.’ He whispered the words into Sam’s ear, and his breath was a caress in itself, as his tongue flickered lightly around the rim and then trailed into the hollow beneath.

Sam shivered under Frodo’s touch, but then pushed back from him. He knew that he had to confess this, that the truth must be spoken now. ‘I—’ he hesitated, then said in a rush, ‘Gandalf didn’t come by accident, you know. I went to him for help. I’m sorry, I know you might not have wanted—’

Frodo stopped the stumbling apology with a finger to Sam’s lips. ‘I am glad that you did, Sam. I—we—needed his help.’ Sam smiled at his understanding and unspoken forgiveness, then, with a sly grin, took Frodo’s finger into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it. ‘Sam!’

‘Mmm?’ The vibration hummed through Frodo, and he leaned heavily into Sam. Letting the finger slip, Sam kissed him gently. ‘I think we should not ignore Gandalf’s advice, you know,’ he said.

‘Advice?’ Frodo blinked, melting safe and loved into Sam’s arms.

‘To make the most of our time.’ Sam guided Frodo backwards, kissing him the while, until they reached the staircase stool and had to break apart to scramble into the billowy embrace of the vast, inviting feather bed. They grinned at each other; this undignified ascent had been amusing when first they arrived in the City, but the absurdity had since been lost to them.

‘And just what were you thinking of doing with this time?’ Frodo’s question was playful, and Sam thought he might burst with the happiness of seeing that look on his face once more.

‘This,’ Sam said, and he lay down, drawing Frodo to him. But Frodo paused now; there was a fragile look to Sam that he had not seen—should have seen.

‘I hurt you, didn’t I? I am sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to. I just could not seem to reach out through all the…’ Frodo shivered, at the memory of a danger now past, not a threat renewed.

‘It doesn’t matter. What matters, is that you are here with me, now.’ Sam wrapped Frodo securely in his arms, kissing him firmly.

‘Loving you was all that I had to hold onto, all I had of myself. And I thought I would lose you, Sam.’

Sam brushed his lips tenderly over Frodo’s eyelids, kissing away the last remnants of shadow. ‘You will never lose me unless you mean to, love. I’ll always be here for you.’

‘I love you, Sam.’ Frodo’s lips and tongue traced tantalisingly slow paths, as his fingers worked loose buttons and sent shivers of their own across Sam’s skin. 

‘Frodo, please?’ Sam was trembling, not simply from the desire that was rising. Frodo paused in his slow seduction, and looked questioningly. Sam took his hands and kissed them, then laid them by his sides. ‘Frodo, I want to do this. I need to love you, now you have come back to me.’ 

Frodo settled against the pillows, watching at first as Sam kissed and nuzzled tenderly, taking endless time to remove their clothes. A lingered kiss spun out to soft touch and gentle slide of pleasure in each other, urgency melting now to drowsy comfort and the simple solace of caresses shared. Sam smiled, as Frodo’s lids drooped heavy and thick lashes fringed dark lace upon his cheeks. 

Slow then and slower, whispers of love faded into sleepy sighs and deeper breaths. Between one kiss and another, in quiet content, Frodo’s head slipped down to rest at the hollow of Sam’s shoulder. Drowsily, Sam let the next kiss light upon Frodo’s hair, settled the coverlet lovingly around him, and slept.

 

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)  
22 September 2005


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